


Don't Go to Strangers

by Venivincere



Category: Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-16
Updated: 2011-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-20 11:55:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venivincere/pseuds/Venivincere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Colin needs it, he goes out for it. What else can he do?  Angst with a bit of plaintive sweetness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Go to Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Don’t Go to Strangers  
>  **Author:** Venivincere  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Pairing:** Colin/OMC, Bradley/Colin  
>  **Word count:** 2,800  
>  **Disclaimer:** All characters property of BBC/Shine. No profit intended or realised.  
>  **Warnings:** Public sex, foul language  
>  **Summary:** When Colin needs it, he goes out for it. What else can he do? Angst with a bit of plaintive sweetness.  
>  **Beta:** The lovely Maya231  
>  **Author Notes:** This happened because Toast introduced me to Bonobo and I’ve been listening to _Black Sands_ on repeat almost continuously since last night. Title stolen shamelessly from Etta James.

“Fuckin’ push it in me already, yeah?” says Colin, over his shoulder. The music beats around him like a big, bass pedal in his chest, in his head. He swims in someone else’s fucking Armani cologne and cigarette smoke, bobbing in the wake of the music. He’s lost Bradley, Tom, Tomi and Eoin ages ago, washed onto the dance floor in a sea of women, and who knows what happened to Katie and Angel. He lets all thoughts of them go; sways and dips under, and the man behind him reaches around and heaves him back, anchors him on his cock. The club is dark enough in the corner. The rotating coloured lights and spots don’t reach over here. Colin doesn’t worry about being seen. He’s too fucking high to worry about anything except the urgent need to unload his dick in this guy’s fist.

He’s blond and big, bigger than Colin, taller, and he thinks the guy’s arm might be as big around as Colin’s legs. Colin likes that, likes letting go with men who could probably twirl him around like a staff and break him, if he weren’t half as lithe as he is.

And ahh, fuck, the guy’s pushing into him now, the slick slide of his thick meat prying him open, making him whine low in his throat as he mouths the wall. It’s damp and tastes like cement, gritty, so he pulls the guy’s hand off his hip and lays it flat on the wall, leans his face on it and mouths the guy’s thumb where it splays flat in front of his lips.

Colin feels more than hears soft grunts as the guy gets really into it, thrusting harder and harder into Colin’s ass, the slap of each thrust lost in the beat of the music that seems to pound him into the wall. The sweat gathers behind his balls and under his arms and he’s close, so close. The guy mouths the muscles in his neck, then bites, holds tight while his hips hunch tiny, uneven thrusts into Colin’s ass. Colin feels the guy’s dick throbbing in there, trying hard to wave up and down and spray his release everywhere. It tips him over the edge. He spurts a five-day load on the wall, the floor, the guy’s hand, dribbling, and finally he’s empty and tingling and breathing for England. Or, fine, Wales.

The guy leans in and whispers, “Thanks, mate” as he pulls Colin’s jeans up over the curve of his ass. Colin feels a brief squeeze of resentment in his gut, but then the guy’s fingers are bumping against him as he zips his trousers and then Colin’s left to himself. He zips his jeans without looking and manages to sink into the empty chair behind him, still facing the wall. He can’t see his release but he can smell it, even over the fucking Armani and cigarettes. It cloys in his throat and he can’t catch his breath.

He worms his way out of the club, fairly bursts through the door (black metal, no label) and into the Cardiff streets. It’s raining, no surprise there, a fine, misty piss-down, and cold. He pulls on his hoodie and his cap, sticks his hands in his pockets and hunches into the weather toward the hotel.

“Colin, wait!”

Fuck. He plasters on a tired smile and turns around. “Couldn’t find you, mate,” he lies. “Thought you might have gone off with one of the girls.”

Bradley looks at him, puzzled. “No. Why would I do that?”

Colin gives him the eyebrow and a sardonic smile. He turns around and starts for the hotel again. Of course, Bradley follows.

“Where’d you get to? I lost track of you.”

“Just sittin’ in the back,” Colin slurs. “’M tired.” And he’s dizzy, too, from too much to drink, too many hormones and one long overdue and very fine orgasm, but he’s not about to tell Bradley that. No feckin’ way. He walks faster, wanting this conversation to be over, wanting to fall into bed and sleep until the last possible second before his afternoon call.

“You OK, mate? You look pale.”

He sounds worried, and that’s just like him, so much that Colin gives in, drops back and walks next to him. “I’m fine. Just been a long week’s all. I’m wanting a bit of a rest.”

They make the rest of their way back in companionable silence, and the next thing Colin says is “Goodnight, Bradley” in the hotel corridor outside his door. Bradley’s fiddling with his cardkey at the door next to his.

“Goodnight, Cols.”

He slips inside, leaves his clothes where they fall, cleans his teeth and stretches out naked under the coverlet.

Bradley gives him one good, long stare the next morning, but Colin’s been doing studious and perky so long it’s second nature to him now. Hell, it may even be true after last night’s much-needed fuck and the long, dreamless sleep he had. Whatever it is, Bradley lets it go in the face of an afternoon and evening of vigorous filming running around the corridors on set and looking grim.

Everyone’s staying in Cardiff that weekend; too late to catch the train to London and two hours are always five: British Rail are still getting there. Colin falls into bed Friday night after filming and doesn’t wake until noon on Saturday when Bradley knocks on his door. “You there, Cols?”

“’M not up.”

“Get up for a matinee?”

“What’s on, then?”

“Let me in, mate.”

“Oh.” Colin swipes his hand over his face and rubs his eyes. He reels to the door and lets Bradley in without a thought, doesn’t even realise he’s in the altogether until Bradley flushes raspberry. “Feck,” says Colin, waking up properly. How many steps to the bed—maybe his hand—ah, feck it. It’s nothing Bradley hasn’t seen before and he can just get over it, waking Colin up from a pretty spectacular lie-in, judging from the unflaggingly interested state of his dick.

Bradley swallows, a desperate, vivid thing, and Colin can’t take it anymore. He turns around and fishes on the floor for yesterday’s boxer briefs. Calvins, and they only emphasise his rock-hard readiness, so he sits on the bed and hunches over, hands curling around the edge of the mattress. He should have left them off, but he isn’t about to strip out of them again unless… but that’s a useless thought, shove it out, shove it away, and Colin’s hands beat a tattoo on the coverlet.

“What’s playing?” he asks, distraction being the better part of valour, and all, what with Bradley’s cheeks turned a tempting raspberry. And just why isn’t he turning red himself? His skin feels cool as ever.

Bradley clears his throat and looks at the bed, the floor, the desk, just like everything’s not the same in his own room, “’Yes, Prime Minster’. Millennium Centre, 2:30,” he says, looks at the telly, the wardrobe and _finally_ back at Colin. “Drinks after?”

There’s nothing on today, a rare Saturday when Colin doesn’t have phone appointments and Ruth hasn’t sent him any scripts to look over, so Colin smiles, not so hard to do, and says, “That’s the craic. Here—” he tosses Bradley the remote and shuffles into the shower. Ten minutes later he’s out and rifling through the wardrobe looking for a suitable shirt. Bradley only looks at him once, eyes bouncing off his knob when he walks out from the shower (bare, because really, what’s the point), but Colin sees the fast intake of breath, the momentary widening of Bradley’s eyes, and he knows. He knows for sure, now, and it’s enough to undo all the good of the silent wank he had under the spray, forehead on his arm against the shower wall, pumping furiously to the thought of Bradley in his room, likely on his bed watching telly and nursing a lazy lob. And feck it all for a game of darts if he isn’t getting hard again.

He needs to dress, really he needs to, Bradley is there on Colin’s bed, pillows shoved behind him, legs stretched out across where Colin lies _every night_ , knees spread a bit and legs crossed at the ankle, and nnngh, his cock is filling fast. So of course, Bradley looks up and sees what Colin knows is a pained-looking expression on Colin’s face, because Colin knows what he looks like when he’s in the process of becoming aroused, all crouched over with his elbows in his lap and forearms crossed.

“Cols—” Bradley looks worried and a bit… expectant, maybe?

Colin doesn’t know what that’s about. He looks away, crouched by the wardrobe, miserable, and says, “Get out, Bradley,” grim and annoyed.

Bradley’s half risen off the bed before he pauses, says, “No,” then moves in, careful, like Colin might bolt any second. And he might. He intends to. Any moment he’s going to run, the loo maybe, maybe the corridor because stranger things have happened with those showbiz types, it’s all in good fun, we’re sorry for the bother. He reads the rags; he knows how it goes. He’s ready to make his move and then there are soft hands on his shoulders, warm and a bit damp, steady, then sliding up the curve of his neck and gently tilting his face up.

Bradley’s eyes are quiet, no questions in them, just soothing, gentle, waiting, and Colin gives up. He just gives up. He stands tall, his erection poking out in front of him, looks in Bradley’s eyes and says nothing, just falls into him lips first, parted, wet and willing, and takes what he’s wanted for months, for years, really, let’s be completely honest. He sucks that pouty lip between his own and his cock slides hot and hard into the crease of Bradley’s thigh, pokes and nestles, makes a home in the denim and proceeds to soak it in dribs and drabs. Colin whines. He _whines_ for fuck’s sake, but it doesn’t matter, because Bradley growls, he claps his wide hands on Colin’s ass and yanks Colin tight against him. He bites Colin’s lips and says “ _Finally_ , Morgan.”

Colin loses his legs, but it doesn’t matter: Bradley holds him up by his buttocks. Colin spends what little energy remaining thrusting weakly into the hot cotton between Bradley’s thigh and balls, and sucking the life out of Bradley’s lower lip. He loops his arms around Bradley’s neck, holds on tight, and rides as hard as he can until he crests that final wave and shoots the rapids. His cock continues to pulse, aftershocks, he thinks, but he’s never had them this strong for this long. His vision goes grey around the edges and he floats.

He comes to flat on his back on the bed. Bradley’s flush against him, cock trapped hard against Colin’s hipbone. Bradley’s making tiny thrusts with his hips and he inhales in counterpoint. Colin turns his head and finds Bradley’s lips. They kiss like engaging in battle, tentative, then fierce.

“I want to fuck you,” says Bradley, high and tight in his throat. “Let me.”

Colin’s legs fall apart. Bradley rips open the buttons of his jeans to reveal plain white cotton Y-fronts and god, is he ten, or something? Colin wants to giggle but it comes out a huff of breath. Bradley shimmies, then he’s completely bare and kneeling between Colin’s legs.

Bradley looks at him, impatient, almost angry and Colin says, “Drawer on the left.”

Lube. Something black made of silicone that Bradley throws back in the drawer. Condoms.

“Have you—”

“Shut up,” says Bradley, face fierce, squeezing a viscous blob of lube on the pads of his fingers. “Raise your legs.”

Bradley grabs both ankles in one hand and scrapes the lube off on Colin’s exposed hole, works a finger in without pausing, searching, pressing—Colin groans.

“Fuuuuuck, Bradley,” and somehow he’s getting hard again, trying to, anyway, dick aching and sticky and then there’s a shadow and Bradley’s _mouth_ , his fucking mouth _sucking_ the sticky off his dick.

Bradley gets him half hard and pulls off with a soft pop and lets go of Colin’s ankles. Colin jumps and shivers, then shivers again when Bradley’s wet dick brushes Colin’s balls. Three fingers come out of his ass (and just when three went in, he didn’t know), and Bradley rips open a condom and rolls it on.

He pauses, poised above Colin like a hawk, a raptor. His eyes gleam in a predatory way Colin has never seen before and his gut quakes, wondering how long he’s missed this before or if he’s just never been privy to it.

“I’m going to fuck you now. Open up.”

Aah, and fuck, what was he supposed to do with that? He whimpers and whips his legs open so far something pulls in his groin. Bradley’s parked between Colin’s legs, on his ass with his legs folded under himself and his hands are working Colin’s hips, squeezing his buttocks, digging a furrow into Colin’s ass, searching for his hole.

He finds it.

“Ungh, ungh,” comes out of Colin’s mouth, sounding like questions, documenting how it feels getting his ass filled by Bradley. Who, by the way, has girth _and_ length, but not so much of either that Colin can’t enjoy the obscenity of Bradley’s rolling hips or the soft, whiny “ah, ah, ah”s coming from his mouth. Bradley groans then fucks hard up into him and holds it, holds Colin there with his ass completely off the bed, eyes fluttering, barely breathing.

And then he pulls out hard, slams back in, pulls, slams, pulls and slams again, then he’s shouting something filthy, something Colin can’t understand because his half-hard cock is _coming_ again, how is that even possible, dribbling in steady, weak spurts around his navel.

Bradley collapses onto him, heaving.

“Off,” says Colin, pushing him over. It’s not that he doesn’t want Bradley on him, just not all the way. He can’t breathe and everything’s a bit grey around the edges again and he just needs to suck in air.

He also needs to know, “James, what was that?” He thrusts his hand in his hair and squeezes until there’s actual pain. This better not be a fucking one-off or he might actually cry.

“I saw you,” says Bradley, into his shoulder. His lips tickle Colin’s skin. “I saw you in the corner, in the club.”

Colin groans. “Fuck.”

“I figured it out,” Bradley sounds tentative here. “It wasn’t obvious. It looked like you were dancing in the corner,” he says. “And then you left, and I caught up to you and smelled you, Cols, god. You smelled like…” Bradley gulps. “Like you’d just got off in your trousers, or something.” Bradley palms his cock when he says this, surreptitiously, like he doesn’t want Colin to know, and that’s just ridiculous, isn’t it, after this little fuck-fest on Colin’s bed.

“Look, Bradley, what do you even want?” he asks, because let’s just cut to the chase, here. Fingers dig painfully into his shoulder and Colin flinches away from them.

“You, obviously,” said Bradley.

“Yeah. Since when. Last night at the pub?”

“No, you absolute wanker!”

Bradley never calls names, Colin knows. Any pain he might have felt from it evaporates with the realisation that Bradley really must be hurting, and there go all Colin’s defenses, tumbling down.

Bradley runs a hand through his hair. He sighs. “If you must know, since that day we first read together. I wanted to screw you down on my cock and play with your sideburns while you read your lines, till you spurted in my face.”

“Jesus, Bradley!” Colin’s cock is twitching, really trying again, but it’s a dead cert number four’s not happening.

“Don’t—” Bradley heaves himself onto his side, head in his hand, watching his free hand trail through the mess around Colin’s navel. “I care, you know,” says Bradley, really quiet. “I know you get wound up.” He gulps, sounds pained and a bit out of breath. “Just—don’t go to strangers. Please. Colin, come to me.” He raises his eyes, meets Colin’s, holds them.

There’s come cooling on his stomach, he’s filthy and wrung-right-out content, and Bradley can hold his body upright with his thick arms and apparently Bradley can hold his heart upright, too, in his armored chest. Is this what trust is? This feeling of falling while in control, this feeling of buoyancy in a thick, viscous pool that’s supposed to boil and claim and suffocate?

He jumps in at the deep end. “OK, then.”


End file.
